Lake Pepin, July, 1846.
That portion of the Mississippi which extends from Prairie Du Chien to
Lake Pepin is the most mountainous and truly beautiful on the whole
river, and may with strict propriety be called the Alpine Region. The
river here varies from a quarter to a full mile in width, and on either
side throughout the whole distance is a range of mountains which
sometimes actually bend over the river, and sometimes recede into the
interior for several miles. The Mississippi here is rather sluggish, but
perfectly translucent, and completely filled with islands which are
covered with every variety of forest trees found between Kentucky and
the Great Lakes. But the willow and the elm are pre-eminently beautiful.
Well do I remember with what perfect delight I mused upon the changing
landscape, as our vessel glided onward and onward into the wild and
silent wilderness. The mountains of this region are not quite so lofty
as the Highlands of the Hudson, (to which they have been compared,) but
they are far more picturesque, fantastic, and extensive. At one moment
may be seen a cone-shaped mountain rising to the height of some eight
hundred feet, and completely covered, to the extreme summit, with a
carpet of grass; now the eye will linger on a perpendicular bluff,
pictured against the sky, like a fortress of the Mound Builders, and
actually frowning upon the softly flowing stream that laves its
foliage-hidden base; now, you sail in the shadow of a pillared temple
that seems to prop the sky; and now, along a continued succession of
peaks and points that fade away, until lost in the rosy atmosphere of
evening. During all this time, your vessel will be gliding around and
between the most charming of green islands, some of them containing a
solitary grave, others a little brotherhood of Indians, lounging upon
the grassy opening before their wigwams; while some happy bird will
favor you with an occasional song, or the leap of a trout take the fancy
captive, to revel in the cool chambers of the stream. Here it is, too,
that the famous Island Mountain rises to the height of five hundred
feet, completely covered with trees, and capped by a cluster of broken
rocks. It is several miles long and about one in width, and is the
largest island in the Mississippi. From time immemorial it has been
celebrated for the number of its rattlesnakes, and on a grassy plot at
its base stands a cluster of graves, where repose the ashes of stranger
Indians who died upon the island from wounds inflicted by these
reptiles.
The next object that I would attempt to describe on my way up the
Mississippi, is Lake Pepin. It lives in my memory as the Horicon of the
wilderness. It is an extended portion of the Mississippi,—twenty-three
miles long, and from three to four wide. It is surrounded with hills,
which abound in almost every variety of game; its shores are gravelly
and covered with the most valuable of agates and cornelians; the water
is clear, and very deep; and it yields the very best of fish in great
abundance. My first view of Lake Pepin (I wish I knew how it came by
that name!) was on one of the most charming evenings that I ever
witnessed. The cloudless sky was studded with stars, and the moon sailed
upward and onward with an uncommon beauty, as if proud of the wilderness
world she was then flooding with her beams. For hours did I sit musing
upon the eastern shore, near the outlet, whence I could discern no less
than sixteen peaks or bluffs, looming in perfect solitude against the
horizon. “The holy time was quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration.”
The water was without a ripple, and reflected in its pure bosom every
star, while the moon, as if determined that it should so remain for
ever, spanned it with a bar of gold. The only sounds that trembled in
the air were the hoot of an owl, the wail of a loon, and a hum from the
insect world. I looked and wondered, until the night was far spent, and
the dew upon my brow was heavy and cold.
It was while tarrying at this lake that the Captain of our steamer was
honored by a visit from Wabashaw, the head chief of the Sioux nation. He
was attended by several of his counsellors, and in all his movements had
the bearing of a proud prince. He is a young man, and said to be a brave
and eminently successful warrior. Our captain treated him to wine, and I
gave him a present of tobacco. The Captain was so pleased with the
natural curiosity, as he called the chief, that he summoned all his lady
passengers to obtain a glimpse. The ladies soon made their appearance,
and while staring at the chief, now laughing, and now laying their hands
upon his ornaments, a most ferocious glance all at once shot from his
eye, and uttering a scornful speech, he bolted from the ring of impudent
spectators. The cause of this singular movement was, that it is
considered disgraceful for a Sioux chief to be seen in the company of
women, or to be spoken to and stared upon by them. The only person whose
hand he would take on going ashore was mine; and when I happened to meet
this chief on a subsequent occasion, he treated me with marked
attention, and presented me with a handsome pipe.
At the time that I visited Lake Pepin there were quite a number of Sioux
Indians encamped upon its shores. Among the lodges which I visited was
that of a woman, ninety years of age and a widow. She looked exceedingly
wretched, but was so intelligent and amiable that I almost fell in love
with the old antediluvian. I cannot give the whole of her long story,
but an idea of its character may be obtained from the following episode,
which I listened to, seated by her side, and that of her only
descendant—a handsome boy. Her attention had been directed to our
steamer which lay moored a short distance off, when she suddenly broke
out with the following:—“How rapidly does time fly! A short time ago the
light canoe was the only thing that glided upon this lake; but now we
often hear the groaning of the great fire-vessel, as it sweeps along
like an angry stag. The white man’s conduct appears strange. I can not
understand its purpose. O, I am an old woman and a fool!
“Many, very many, have been my trials. Thirty years has my husband been
dead. Eight brave sons have I had, but they were all killed in battles
with the Chippeways. I also had two daughters, who were like the does of
the prairie, but the Great Spirit has long since taken them to the happy
land. My only relative, now living, is this boy. O, I am an old woman,
and have no business to live!
“But I will not despair. The Great Spirit is at my fireside, and has
given me a helper in the dark evening of my days. This boy-hunter
supplies me with food. His arrow never fails, and the winds always tell
him where to find the sweet fish. He paddles my canoe, he brings me wood
for my fire, and he sleeps sweetly by my side in my comfortable lodge.
O, I am an old woman!—but what is there in the world that I need, and
cannot obtain?”
May the smiles of Providence for ever rest upon this mother of a great
nation, whose glory is personified in her feeble and decrepit form.
The most romantic legend, however, associated with the Mississippi
Horicon is the story of Winona. She was the daughter of a chief, and
lived about one hundred years ago. She was exceedingly beautiful and
universally beloved. Her father had promised her hand to a favorite
warrior, but her heart had been pledged to another, not less brave, but
more noble and youthful. For many months she would not listen to the
wishes of her father;—but his sterner nature was roused, and he vowed
that she _must_ marry the object of _his_ choice. Weeks passed on, and
she knew that she must yield. Nightly did she meet her accepted lover,
but always talked to him of the Spirit Land, as if she had been a queen
of that fantastic realm. The marriage night had been appointed, and the
chief had proclaimed a feast. To all outward appearance a change
suddenly came over the daughter’s mind, and she smiled and talked, like
one about to be made a happy bride. Among the delicacies that were to be
eaten on the occasion, was a certain berry that was found in great
perfection upon a certain hill or bluff. It was a pleasant summer
afternoon, and all the female friends of Winona, accompanied by herself,
were picking the desired berries.
Carelessly did they all wander up the hillside, while an occasional
laugh would ring upon the air; but Winona was only seen to smile, for
(though those loving friends knew it not) her heart was darkened by many
a strange shadow. Carelessly did the berry-gatherers wander on; when all
at once a low melancholy song fell upon their ears, and lo! upon the
very edge of a beetling precipice stood the form of the much loved
Winona.
Her song was death-like, and when her companions were intuitively
convinced of the contemplated deed, they were stupified with horror.
Winona motioned them to keep back, while her song increased until it
became a perfect wail. The burthen of it was,
“Farewell, sisters:—
I am going to the Spirit Land;
My warrior will come after me,
And we shall be blessed.”
One moment more, and Winona, the pride of all the Indian villages on
Lake Pepin, was deeply buried in its clear cold bosom. And this is the
story that hallows the loftiest peak of this lake. I obtained it, as
here related, from one of her kindred, and I believe it to be true. As
to Winona’s warrior, it is said that he lived for many years a hermit,
and finally died a madman. So runneth many a song of life.